


Saw You Him Whom My Soul Loves

by Erushi



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Biblical References, Historical References, Immortality, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erushi/pseuds/Erushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole business about God creating Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, makes him laugh. For one, he had there, too. For another, pretty much everything back then had been made by God, when the world was still all shiny and new. </p><p>He doesn’t think he has ever gone by the name of Steve, though. Not that it matters much. These days, he usually goes by the name of Napoleon Solo. </p><p>---</p><p>Or: The one where Illya and Gaby are reincarnated throughout history, but Napoleon still manages to find them anyway. Please be warned that this fic contains liberal reinterpretation of biblical themes and references. If this is not your cup of tea, you may wish to give this fic a pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saw You Him Whom My Soul Loves

**Author's Note:**

> Again, **please be warned that this fic contains liberal reinterpretation of biblical themes and references**. If this is not your cup of tea, you may wish to give this fic a pass.
> 
> Title adapted from Song of Songs 3:3 of the Bible (King James Version).

_Later._

The whole business about God creating Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, makes him laugh. For one, he had there, too. For another, pretty much everything back then had been made by God, when the world was still all shiny and new.

He doesn’t think he has ever gone by the name of Steve, though. Not that it matters much. These days, he usually goes by the name of Napoleon Solo.

=-=-=

_Now._

Eve doesn’t recognise him when he finds her in a tired, little chop shop in East Berlin. Not consciously, at least.

This doesn’t really bother him. He has had lifetimes to learn that the remembrance does not always happen immediately. What matters for now is that she recognises him enough _instinctively_ for Gaby to be willing to go along with his plans, because his orders from Sanders are orders, and she may have been his first friend in the Garden so many lifetimes ago but she’s Gabriella Teller in this lifetime now, and his orders are to take Gaby safely across the Berlin Wall.

He, on the other hand, recognises her immediately. The insouciant tilt of her head as she slides out from beneath the dismantled car to regard him is achingly familiar, as is the imperious lift of her chin, so much so that he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch her, to satisfy himself that she is indeed real. Instead, he pulls out a chair, drops into it with a studied casualness and sets about persuading Gaby that it would be in her best interests to leave with hm.

If he does hold her a touch far tighter and for a touch far longer than necessary when they fly towards West Berlin, well. In his defence, he hasn’t seen her since Paris, 1917.

=-=-=

_In the beginning._

Eve is made from man’s rib, but she is her own woman. She is more than Adam’s equal as she roams the Garden restlessly, eyes bright with curiosity and feet bare and vines tangled in her hair. She challenges the names which Adam has bequeathed to the animals, devises questions to which there are no answers. (Or at least, not yet.)

Napoleon, who watches on curiously from the bushes, thinks that he may have found a kindred spirit.

She notices him, eventually. The fact that she’s the first one to do so is unsurprising. He slides out on his belly when she calls to him, and she laughs in delight as he loops up her outstretched arm in playful coils.

 _What are you_ , she asks, and he takes a deep breath, hisses as his body reshapes itself into what it originally was in Heaven, before he left, before he decided to sneak into the Garden for a peek.

 _Why are we here_ , she asks, and he finds that has no answer.  

In the end, pointing her to the Tree of Knowledge seems like the right thing to do; besides, he’s never been one for respecting authority anyway. It’s certainly no less than what she truthfully deserves, and she takes its fruit gladly, remains triumphant even in the face of thundering displeasure. Afterwards, Napoleon rides serpentine on her shoulder as she strides out of the Garden, pride and strength in the graceful column of her neck, and the rest of the world at her feet for her to claim.

=-=-=

_Now._

He doesn’t recognise Adam immediately, this time. It’s only when he meets the stubborn glare of their KGB tail through the rear window of Gaby’s car that Napoleon feels his mouth go bone-dry. He freezes, can’t help but stare, and when Gaby suggests that Napoleon take a shot at him, it’s an effort for Napoleon to fumble out a weak excuse not to, too caught up in willing that Adam recognises him too.

Later that night, Napoleon uses what CIA resources to find out what he can about the KGB agent, about Adam in this lifetime. _Illya Kuryakin_ , is the name he receives when the information begins to trickle in, and he murmurs the words softly under his breath, again and again, like an invocation, a charm.

(Like a prayer, he thinks whimsically, only he hasn’t prayed in a long, long while.)

Illya Kuryakin is sharp-edged and bright and merciless in the clear light of day. He launches into the criminal background of Napoleon’s current guise, and it’s brutally obvious that Illya does not remember.

Disappointment claws at Napoleon’s throat, a black and bitter bile, gagging him. But this isn’t the first time, likely won’t be the last, so Napoleon lets out the breath he hadn’t known that he had been holding and gives back as good as he gets, settles into the persona of nonchalant spy and trades verbal barb for barb. Parry, riposte.

Illya flips their table over at the Café Gustav, and Napoleon struggles to hide the grin that threatens to stretch from ear to ear, fights the urge to laugh and to laugh, because it’s almost just like old times again, really, except he’s already been thrown into toilet stalls this morning and held in a chokehold, and he’s not keen on adding a punch in the face to the list. There’s anger in the tightening of Illya’s jaw, the promise of violence writ clear in the perceptible tremor of his hands, a vicious brutality that’s clean and pure in its fury. Napoleon thinks he may have dared it once, lifetimes ago when he was younger and the world even more young, but he’s older now, millennia heavy on his shoulders, and the same dance no longer excites him, only wearies.

“See you tomorrow,” he calls out instead, with as cheeky a grin as he can manage, while Illya stalks away, because it’s still expected of him, and because it’s all he can do against the unhappy clench between his ribs.

=-=-=

_In the beginning._

To say that Adam takes a while to warm up to him is something of an understatement. To say that theirs is a mutual dislike is perhaps an understatement too, but perhaps more accurately a _mis_ -statement.

Napoleon’s looped around Eve’s neck in loose coils when she introduces him to Adam, and Adam’s stubborn silence is palpable, a cold, heavy, _uncomfortable_ thing that lingers in the lush greenery of the Garden, the only discordant note in a place where everything has otherwise been made for comfort. Adam remains mistrustful even after Napoleon sheds his scales for two feet, and he only addresses Napoleon to rebut him, cutting remarks that have Eve tossing her hands up in exasperation even as Napoleon matches him sting for sting.

Then they’re thrown out of the Garden, and the first time Napoleon takes to having legs again after the whole debacle, Adam punches him hard enough to send him reeling backwards. Adam’s knuckles catch across Napoleon’s chin, splitting his lip. Blood wells in Napoleon’s mouth, its salty sweetness startling after having not tasted it for so long.

It’s instinct that drives Napoleon forward next, fist swinging upwards to deliver a clean hook to the jaw. Adam tries to block it, doesn’t succeed, his arms a clumsy shield, but he follows quickly with a tackle to Napoleon’s waist, and they tumble to the dusty earth in a graceless heap. They grapple, and it’s primal, dirty, beautiful: a tangle of limbs, soft grunts when flesh connects, every movement pared down, stripped away of all higher intent, a quiet intensity, hurt for hurt’s sake, and – _oh_.

They break apart, breathing heavily, a growing heaviness between their thighs. New-found knowledge colours Adam’s cheeks, and it’s all so ridiculous that Napoleon’s torn lips curl into an involuntary, painful grin. Adam spits at him before stalking away.

They do not talk for the next two centuries.

=-=-=

_Now._

Gaby is young – too young and wide-eyed for the game, in Napoleon’s opinion, not that anyone’s asking him. But war’s no respecter of age, however _civilised_ the battle is, and Gaby’s young but she’s also a spitfire, courage in her bones and iron in her veins.

In Rome, Napoleon watches from the shadows of the Coliseum as she wraps her fingers around Illya’s arm and urges restraint against their would-be muggers. There’s a tremor in her voice, but her will is implacable. Later, she snaps at Illya and him to behave, and they quell. When she cuts her too-wide eyes in his direction, meets his gaze and wordlessly dares, just _dares_ him to say otherwise, Napoleon revises his opinion gladly.

Gaby may not remember, but she is every inch the woman Napoleon first met in the Garden.

=-=-=

_1200 BC._

Delilah is young and Delilah is beautiful, and her dark, doe eyes speak of past lives lived and yet unlived. Delilah is stronger than the men around her reckon, blind and foolish men who do not see how she takes her destiny in her own hands, makes it, breaks it, re-forges it. It’s something she does, always has done, always will do.

She doesn’t start when she sees him, merely pauses instead and waits as he approaches her.

“Hello, old friend,” she says, when he draws within speaking distance. She’s dressed for travel, and she hoists her makeshift sling bag higher on her shoulder even as her lips curve into a welcoming smile. “I believe it’s been a long time.”

“You remember, then?” he asks, just to be sure.

“I do, now,” she replies easily.

“And you’re leaving,” he states. He barely hides his wince at the plaintive note that has crept into his voice.

She laughs, however. It’s a musical sound. “It seems wise, don’t you think?” she suggests lightly, and Napoleon is forced to concede that she is indeed correct. This whole matter concerning Samson will turn against her eventually, if she lingers in this city.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he agrees.

She shrugs easily. “Look me up again in the next few cities, I guess. Or the next life.” She starts to take a steps forward, but pauses again to look back. “Have you found him yet?”

“No,” he admits. “Not in this time.” He doesn’t always find them together. Rarely does, in fact. It’s usually only one or the other, with years in between each meeting, decades, centuries. She knows this too, by now – he has shared as much with her in more than one life – but it never stops her from asking each time she finally remembers all the lives that were.

“How was he the last time you saw him?” she asks. For a moment, she sounds wistful.

Napoleon closes his eyes against the memory of an Egyptian sun, the blue-green of the Nile, their hunting group breaking up to track the hippopotami in pairs with harpoons, and his partner crouched beside him in the rushes, honeyed limbs and lithe muscle as graceful in the afternoon’s fight as they would be again that night, wrapped around Napoleon’s waist as they spilled their desire with a sigh.

“He was well,” he answers honestly.

“Good,” she says. She resumes walking.

Silently, Napoleon watches her go, the clink of her reward in the money pouch at her waist, her gambled and hard-won freedom a queen’s mantle about her shoulders.

=-=-=

_Now._

Working with Illya is frustrating, except for when it isn’t actually, not really. It’s clear enough that they make a good team when they’re not too busy bickering, and the push and pull of the dangerous dance they share would be heady if it weren’t already so achingly familiar.

As it is, working with Illya makes Napoleon _want_. He wants with an impatient hunger that itches too hot and far too deep beneath his skin. He suspects it’s because he already knows from experience what it had been like and what it could still be, Illya’s hot mouth against his throat and the glorious slide of bared skin.

Instead, he settles for making each retort more mocking than the last, and basks in every exasperated eye-roll he receives in turn, drinks in every snarky comeback that Illya cuts his way. He sleeps with the lovely hotel receptionist, because she is pretty and because she is everything Illya’s isn’t: soft, feminine curves instead of smooth, masculine planes; pliant, welcoming flesh instead of the hard, whipcord muscle; hair dark and coiffed instead of blond and short; eyes a coffee brown instead of the forgotten blue of a long-ago summer sky.

(He sleeps with her because he is selfish, always has and always will be, and there’s a swell of music in the room below his, a mad tumble of furniture which he would rather not dwell upon.)

In the morning, he practices tucking pieces of himself away as he dresses before the fogged glass of the bathroom mirror, smooths a history of want down the lapel of his jacket, folds millennia of yearning out of sight in the careful knot of his tie. He practices until he’s just Napoleon Solo again, early thirties, serial womaniser, art thief, expert safecracker, reluctant CIA spy.

It works until Illya almost drowns himself in the Vinciguerra’s private harbour.

There’s a moment of panic when he wrestles Illya out of the water, and it’s painfully obvious when they break through the surface that Illya’s not breathing. But he manages, somehow, a series of abdominal thrusts and a sliver of supernatural strength, and Napoleon half-swims, half-pulls a coughing Illya back to shore.

They’re both wheezing as they climb back up onto the dock to sprawl on their backs, weak-limbed and gangly, against the worn and damp wooden slats. Napoleon lets his head roll to the side, and watches detachedly as Illya pushes himself up on his elbows to look at him. There’s something different about Illya’s intent gaze, he observes absently as he meets Illya’s eyes. Something _knowing_.

Napoleon freezes as Illya’s lips ghost over his.

Then, abruptly, Illya twists away. His shoulders heave as he coughs again, and when he finally recovers, the fey light in his eyes is gone.

Wordlessly, Napoleon allows Illya to give him a hand up.

=-=-=

_330 BC._

For all his flaws as a ruler, Darius is kind. It’s a trait that makes Darius a poor king, but it’s what also makes Napoleon linger in his court.

( _Bagoas_ , the courtiers call him, but Napoleon does not mind. It had been child’s play to fool them into believing that he was a eunuch, after all.)

He stays until the Persian Empire falls, whereupon finds himself in the company of Alexander’s Macedonian army as they cross the Gedrosian Desert. It’s a hard crossing, and when they finally emerge from the dunes, they celebrate the first night of their success with food and much wine, with contests of song and dance. Napoleon lets himself be talked into participating in the latter, because it’s easy enough, because every old story has a grain of truth in it, and the old stories about the Garden are not wrong when they talk about his penchant for _temptation_.

He throws himself into the heady rhythm of the drums with abandon. His feet trace and stamp intricate patterns in the desert sand, only stuttering to a confused halt when the drumbeats fade away. His audience is louder now, their calls raucous, approving, bawdy. _To the general_ , they clamour, and he moves towards Alexander in a giddy trance. He barely remembers sitting down beside his new king.

 _Kiss him_ , the crowd urges now, as a pair of arms encircle Napoleon’s shoulders. Warm, dry lips slant over his. Alexander is kissing him, he realises in a daze. His new king is kissing him for the first time, a first kiss that’s breathtakingly familiar all the same, and suddenly, it’s as though the fog in Napoleon’s mind dissipates.

“You,” he gasps when they draw back for breath.

“Me,” Adam agrees, and takes him again. (Takes him apart.)

=-=-=

_Now._

The three of them are huddled outside their extraction chopper, drained and nerveless still from their last melee with Alexander Vinciguerra, when Gaby’s eyes lock with his. They’re apologetic as they hold his gaze. They’re also older, so much older, and Napoleon nods his comprehension just as Waverly announces that they’ve captured the wrong missile.

=-=-=

_1917 AD._

The café she takes him to is a crowded affair despite the ongoing rationing. Their coffees arrive in chipped porcelain cups, black and weak; sugar has become dear with the wartime tax in full swing.

“I asked to see you today,” she begins without preamble, almost idly, as she selects the cup closer to her, “because I don’t think I’ll be seeing you again.”

He looks at her sharply. “Are you thinking of leaving Paris?”

 “Not quite leaving,” she says. Her lips twist in a wry half-smile. “They suspect I’m a German spy. I expect they’ll be arresting me any day now.”

He hesitates. There are still ways out of France, quick, undetectable ways, and he knows the right people for it, a steamer to Spain, perhaps, or to England –

She catches his wrist. Her grip is firm, for all that her fingers are trembling ever so slightly. “No, don’t. I’ve already made up my mind.”

“But I could–”

“No.” Her voice is hard. “This meeting was just so that we can say goodbye properly.” She sighs as she withdraws her hand. “So, goodbye, old friend.”

He’s silent as he studies her over the rim of his cup. She looks tired, he realises for the first time, more so than he has seen her in recent years, the skin around her eyes puffy, her cheeks sunken.  

“Are you?” he asks impulsively.

“A German spy?” Margreet smiles again, and this time it’s a different sort of smile, her stage smile, Mata Hari smiling back at him across the table now, secretive and alluring. “That would be telling, and you know there’s no fun in that.” She gestures imperiously. “Drink your coffee.”

=-=-=

_Now._

He’s folding the last of his shirts when Gaby lets herself into his hotel suite.

“Hello, you,” she says mischievously, cracking a grin as he turns around, and Napoleon feels a matching grin stretch from ear to ear as he crosses the room with lengthening strides. He pulls her into a tight, one-armed hug that lifts her feet off the ground, ignores her squeak of protest and whirls them around.

“Hello,” he returns somewhat breathlessly when he finally sets her down again, before folding her into another hug.

“You’re terrible,” she tells him, and he feels the smile she presses into his shoulder, soft and warm and genuinely fond.

“No more than you deserve.”

“Says you.”

“Hah.” He releases her reluctantly, and watches as she makes to sit on the end of his bed, her legs dangling off the edge. “Shouldn’t you be packing too?” he asks pointedly as he fits his folded shirts neatly into his suitcase.

“That’s done,” she says, kicking her legs idly. “The bellboy collected my things before I came over to see you.”

He hums non-committedly. “Will you be hanging around?”

“That would depend on what Waverly says,” she shrugs. The corner of her lips quirk. “What about you?”

“Depends on what the CIA says.”

“Hm.”

They linger in companionable silence for a while. Napoleon finishes with his shirts, moves on to his slacks.

Behind him, Gaby clears her throat. “Is Illya…?” she asks, trailing off uncertainly.

Napoleon stills, and carefully does not turn his head to look at her over his shoulder. “Yes,” he says at last, and closes his eyes. “Yes, he is.”

“He doesn’t remember yet, does he?”

“No,” he answers quickly, trying for nonchalance, but winces instead at the way the word stumbles out, clumsy, brittle, too loud. “No, Illya doesn’t,” he tries again, and there, that’s much better.

There’s movement behind him. She approaches him slowly and places a hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle. He forces himself to take a deep breath and opens his eyes.

“I should look for Waverly now,” she tells him when he finally turns again to face her. Her tone is light, but there’s worry in her steady gaze, and so he forces himself to muster a smile. She squeezes the hand she has on his shoulder gently. “We shall speak again soon, my old friend.”

“Your oldest and dearest friend,” he reminds her out of habit, tucking his hands into his pockets with deliberate casualness.

“You know it,” she winks, and gives his shoulder another squeeze before slipping out.

=-=-=

_1603 AD_

Napoleon always plays to his audience when he’s takes the stage. Today, however, there’s something about the stranger standing amongst the audience in the pit of the Globe that makes Napoleon want to play specifically to _him_. And so, he does. “Come, I will have thee,” he announces as he boldly meets the unwavering stare of his mysterious stranger. “Peace! I will stop your mouth,” he proclaims just before he kisses the youth playing Beatrice to his Benedick, and when he does so he imagines that it’s a different pair of lips beneath his instead.

He’s almost disappointed when he finally exits the theatre grounds, stage make-up wiped hastily away and his clothes but mere street garb once more, to discover that the stranger is nowhere to be found amongst the regular throng of admirers who linger outside. He tells himself that he is being foolish, and that he is being unwise by letting his enthusiasm show so. Buggery is, sadly, a hanging offence, and while he wouldn’t _die_ , hanging on a noose is never comfortable.

He’s not expecting the pair of hands that grab him after supper, when he leaves the rest of the Company to their merrymaking in the tavern.

The hands shove him into a narrow alleyway. Napoleon stumbles, and uses his momentum to twist around in a crouch, his dagger in his hand as he faces his attacker.

It’s the stranger from the afternoon’s play. Napoleon blinks his surprise, even as the man holds his hands up in a calming gesture.

“Wait, I just want to talk to you,” the man rasps. He sounds frustrated, anxious, and it’s all so incongruous with their piss-smelling surroundings that Napoleon has to choke back a laugh.

“Most people would have approached me in the tavern,” he points out evenly, instead. “But do carry on.”

“Who are you?” the man asks, and _this_ does startle a laugh from Napoleon.

“Why sir, I would have thought my name obvious enough from the day’s playbill,” he retorts. He hesitates, lowering his dagger, but keeps the blade unsheathed just in case. “You were there in my audience. I saw you.”

“I’ve watched your plays for three days already,” the man confesses in a strangled whisper.

Napoleon snorts. “All the more you should know my name, then.”

“I just had to, I couldn’t not,” the man continues, as though Napoleon had not said anything. “I have never met you before, but I feel that I’ve known you forever. I can’t keep away. I want – ” He breaks off then, brings hand up to massage his forehead. “Who are you?” he asks again, and he sounds defeated.

Napoleon freezes. “Do you remember?” he asks, cautiously.

The man – Adam, only he’s not Adam now, not yet – barks a laugh. “I wouldn’t be speaking with you here if I did,” he points out.  

“I am not playing tomorrow,” Napoleon tells him. “If you would meet me at this tavern for dinner…”

“I can’t,” the man interrupts. “My ship sails before the break of dawn. My time with you now is but borrowed.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at that. He studies what he can of the stranger’s garb in the dark, and his other eyebrow climbs to match the first. “You’re a pirate.”

“An honest sailor and merchant,” the man counters. “Look,” he says, and breaks off with a frustrated growl as he rakes his hair. “Will I be able to find you when I next return to shore?”

“I do not see myself forsaking the stage anytime soon,” Napoleon offers. It’s the best he can promise.

The man nods, as if satisfied. “I will seek you out again. Until then, adieu.” He turns at that, and leaves at a rapid run in the direction of the docks.

Napoleon only realises that he never received his mysterious stranger’s name after the night has swallowed the man whole.

=-=-=

_Now._

Illya behaves oddly, right up to he catches the watch Napoleon tosses at him and fumbles the watch on to his wrist. Then, he straightens, stills. “You know what my mission is?”

Napoleon eyes him warily. “Same as mine was,” he answers. “Kill me if necessary –” he reveals the concealed disk with a clean flick of his wrist “– to get that.”

Silence settles awkwardly between them, a heavy, stifling thing, potentially ruinous. Napoleon lets it stretch, chooses instead to study the fresh scrapes on Illya’s face, on his knuckles. The raw skin has barely begun to scab over, bright red and angry still, the surrounding flesh puffy. For a moment, the urge to reach out and to _soothe_ is almost crippling, and Napoleon rubs his palms absently against the fabric of his slacks.

He’s wholly unprepared for the fist that cuts across his cheek.

There’s a brief, frantic moment as he makes a hasty lunge for his gun, only to have Illya dart forward and shove him back. Then, Ilya’s fingers grip the front of his shirt, and Napoleon finds himself tugged sharply towards Illya, their mouths colliding forcefully.

It’s a vicious kiss, as kisses go. Illya attacks his mouth with tongue and teeth, bites on Napoleon’s lip and licks _in_ , and Napoleon moans. In turn, Napoleon gives as good as he’s got, palms Illya’s ass with his left hand and reaches with his right to tangle his fingers roughly in Illya’s hair.

They’re both breathing heavily when they finally break for air.

“You bastard, what –”

“That was for East Berlin,” Illya interrupts, raising a hand to thumb Napoleon’s still-smarting cheek. “And this, he adds – drawls, really – before pushing their mouths together again, “is for us.”

Napoleon twists a hand in the back of Illya’s collar and _yanks_. Illya tears away with a growl.

“Wait,” Napoleon rasps, and promptly forgets what he means to say, because he’s only just noticed that Illya’s eyes are dark, the blue but a faintest rim around blown pupils. Almost unconsciously, his gaze drops to ripe swell of Illya’s lips, red and kiss-swollen. He watches as Illya’s mouth parts, pink curl of a tongue darting out to over the chapped curve of the lower lip. The same lower lip which Napoleon had been sunk his teeth in just moments before, surprising a hissed whimper from Illya, a groan, and the heady memory of it of all makes Napoleon drag Illya back into another kiss.

“There you are at last,” he whispers just before Illya’s lips slant over his, and he swallows Illya’s answering moan.

“Here I am,” Illya agrees when they part again, cheeks flushed, breathless. Abruptly, he smirks, then laughs, a warm, affectionate sound. “Always thinking that you’re the clever one, but when it comes to important things…” he trails off, leaning in to nip along the line of Napoleon’s jaw.  

“Shut up,” Napoleon grumbles good-naturedly, tilting his head to give Illya better access. “I recognised you a long time ago. You just took so long remembering that I gave up.” His breath hitches as Illya’s mouth fastens on the sensitive hollow beneath his ear, and he allows Illya to walk him backwards towards the bed.

“Snark, snark.” Illya’s hands tug at Napoleon’s tie. The slim fabric falls carelessly to the side with the faintest whisper of silk. Clever fingers begin to undo the buttons of Napoleon’s shirt. “How many people has it been?”

Napoleon bats Illya’s hands away impatiently, and reaches to shove Illya’s jacket off the man’s shoulders. “You weren’t here,” he challenges as he falls backwards onto the mattress, pulling Illya down with him.

 _I’ve missed us_ , he wants say, but doesn’t. (He’s sure Illya already knows.)

Theirs is an age-old rhythm, afterwards: of spread thighs and arched backs, of hungry mouths and deft fingers, the push and pull of bodies that fit together just so. Letting go still feels remarkably like falling had so many millennia ago, even before the beginning, exhilarating and terrifying and so very right, and Napoleon tosses his head back in a wordless cry as he over their bellies.

“Peril,” he does whisper as Illya shudders above him, as he cards his fingers through Illya’s fine hair while Illya chokes out his name, because jokes about the Red Peril aside, this, _this_ , has always been his risk, will always be his downfall.

=-=-=

_In the beginning._

In the two centuries that he and Adam do not speak, Napoleon comes and goes as he pleases. Adam usually ignores him when he visits, finds all sorts of reasons to excuse himself from Napoleon’s company even as Even greets him with a hug and a smile.

It’s therefore unsurprising that Napoleon _jumps_ , the first time Adam sits next to him at the campfire.

Adam’s raised eyebrow is mocking, but his hands are soft as he reaches for Napoleon’s arm. “You needn’t have done that.”

“Done what?” Napoleon manages on his third try, his mouth suddenly too dry on the first two.

Adam’s fingers turn Napoleon’s arm over gently to expose the underside, where Eve’s nails have left a line of bloody half-moon crescents – a souvenir from Napoleon having lent his arm and his strength to Eve as she expelled her youngest child from her womb. “That,” Adam says, gesturing with a slight jerk of his chin.

Napoleon retrieves his arm. “I wanted to,” he says honestly, studying the tiny, tender wounds himself. He presses a finger absently against one of the crescents and watches, fascinated, as tiny beads of blood well up. The pain grounds him, and he breaths through the warmth that radiates from the man now seated beside him. “How is she? And the baby?”

“They’re both well. Sleeping. She would tell me that I’m being a bad host, if I let you sit alone.”

“Is that why you are here?” Napoleon asks, teasingly, and laughs at the scowl he receives in turn. “Do you realise that this is the longest we have spoken?”

Adam, if anything else, scowls harder. “You think you’re so clever,” he mutters.

“I _know_ I’m clever,” Napoleon corrects with a grin. “But that is not why you suddenly wish to speak with me now, isn’t it?”

Beside him, Adam exhales noisily. “Tell me about why it is you wander,” he says, instead, looking into the fire instead of Napoleon.

It’s an unexpected request, but Napoleon does so, all the same. He talks about a Heaven that bled ragged and raw about the edges from their rebellion, about how it had all been about pride, and knowledge, and choice, and how it had been the making of a single choice that had damned them all. He closes his eyes briefly against the memory of row upon row of gleaming metal, of armours and shields and bristling spears, and how it had felt to fight to the bitter end, even as others fell away beside him, something he is still proud of. He speaks until he is hoarse, continues speaking even then as he describes what it feels like to scour the earth for your salvation, describes loneliness and disappointment but also hope, always hope even after all this while.

Adam is looking at him by the time he finishes, with an expression Napoleon has not seen on his face before. Slowly, he leans towards Napoleon, until their faces are a bare finger-width’s apart. Napoleon feels his breath catch.

“I have been thinking,” Adam whispers, and he pushes his lips against Napoleon’s, swallowing Napoleon’s gasp. The kiss tastes of wood smoke, of the stew Eve had made them just today before she went into labour, of a green garden, of forbidden fruit, of sin, of redemption, of shelter. Unbidden, Napoleon gives himself over to hope.

=-=-=

_Later._

He wakes in Istanbul, in Paris, in Warsaw, in Lisbon, in Budapest. He wakes to the liquid golden spill of the sunlight over Illya’s bared shoulders, to Illya’s arm a comfortable weight draped over the small of his back, and when Illya presses a sleepy kiss into his nape, Illya’s smile promises him tomorrow and the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't believe I've written as many words of this as I have. I was trying (and failing) to write a different TMFU fic with a considerably less ridiculous premise when the opening lines of this fic just came to me, and I couldn't stop thinking about the idea until I wrote it all out. Plus, all those missing scenes and narrative gaps in the film was irresistible fodder. That said, I may also have channeled some of my feminist views/frustrations about the Bible. Ahahaha.
> 
> In my mind, Illya keeps being reborn in the role of a soldier, while Gaby keeps being reborn as an awesome spy/femme fatale-type. They don't always remember (oh, the pathos), but when they do remember, they remember _all_ the past lives, which I imagine is probably useful, but also possibly rather depressing. Napoleon, as you would (I hope) have inferred from the fic, is a fallen angel, one of the many foot soldiers who just happened to bet on the wrong side. Not much in the way of supernatural powers, however. Just physical resilience and the ability to conceal his appearance somewhat, if so inclined.
> 
> It's actually quite appalling just how much I've thought about this. Ooops.
> 
> \---
> 
>   
> **Historical References**  
>  (in order of appearance, with much thanks owed to Wikipedia)
> 
> It seems like the first references to "Adam and Steve" were probably [in 1977](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_and_Steve), many years after the Vinciguerra affair (1963). Still, I would like to think that the boys lasted together in this particular lifetime way past 1977. :)
> 
> Delilah is a reference to biblical tale of Samson and Delilah. Apparently, [archaeology has found a circular stone seal dated to the 12th century BCE, and it is hypothesized that this seal may be linked to how the legend of Samson came about](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samson). Hence the 1200 BC setting here.
> 
> [Bagaos](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bagoas_\(courtier\)) to a eunuch who was apparently [one of Alexander the Great's favourites](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Personal_relationships_of_Alexander_the_Great). (Fun fact: "bagaos" literally means eunuch, or something like that, so there was more than one person named "Bagaos" in the Persian empire - including another scheming courtier who played an instrumental role in making and breaking kings for his purposes.) Plutarch records an account of Bagaos winning a dance competition, and the crowds urging that Alexander kiss the victor, before Alexander does so. Darius is, of course, [Darius III](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darius_III), the last king of the Persian Empire, while Alexander refers to [Alexander the Great](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_the_Great). For those morbidly curious about castration throughout history, the better to imagine what sort of illusion Napoleon may have cast to make the Persian court think that he was a eunuch, there's a pretty good sub-reddit thread [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/AskHistorians/comments/21btwr/how_were_eunuchs_castrated/).
> 
> [Mata Hari](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mata_Hari) is the stage name of Margaretha "Margreet" Zelle, a Dutch-born exotic dancer/courtesan living in Paris who was arrested in her Parisienne hotel room in February 1917 and executed by firing squad later that same year by the French in WWI for spying for Germany. Interestingly enough, she had also claimed before to work for French Intelligence. Separately, [sugar was indeed a controlled/taxed food item in France during WWI](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paris_during_the_First_World_War).
> 
> Napoleon the Shakespearan actor was performing ['Much Ado About Nothing'](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/much_ado/full.html); I have him reciting some of Benedick's last lines in the final scene. Dates-wise, Much Ado [was likely written in 1558-1559](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Much_Ado_About_Nothing) and was generally quite popular, while the Globe Theatre first opened in 1599. As such, I think it is not impossible for Much Ado to have been performed at the Globe in 1603 (I say, hand-waving away any gaps in historical accuracy). Socially, buggery was punishable by hanging in Elizabethean/Jacobian England, although the law appears to have been rarely enforced. Meanwhile, there was quite a bit of piracy in those days too, until the end of the [Anglo-Spanish War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Spanish_War_\(1585%E2%80%931604\)) in 1604, when the peace treaty outlawed piracy.
> 
> \---
> 
> tumblr: erushi
> 
> Feel free to drop by and say hi. :)


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